No Way Back
by Ygrain33
Summary: The series of events that brought Ned Couslands on a path that he had never anticipated. Ned and Duncan PoV, with Alistair getting a shot.
1. Prologue

The morning sun slowly makes its way to the noon, shortening the shadow of the castle walls. The outer courtyard is in commotion: men-at-arms are preparing for departure. Supplies are being packed, arrows stacked, swords sharpened one last time.

War is ahead.

The inner courtyard is quieter but even here sounds the clinging of metal: two young men are parrying with practice swords, neither able to secure victory while the sun devours the last remnants of shade.

From the gallery, two men watch, until a servant approaches. "My Lord… Arl Howe has arrived."

"Oh. It was high time he did." The speaker turns to the other man. "Will you accompany me to welcome an old friend?"

As they leave, the young men continue their struggle until one of them stumbles and the other takes an advantage of the moment and disarms him. His excited roar startles a chestnut mabari from its comfortable slumber in the sun and provokes a response from a window on the first floor.

"Ned! Get yourself in a civilized shape and come over, we have guests!"

"Yes, mother!" the young man makes an exaggerated bow and whistles at his dog, then turns a warning glance at his companion. "Don't you dare to say a word, Gilmore!"

"Of course not, my Lord. I'd never dare to comment on anything your Lady mother says."

Then they both burst out laughing.

It's going to be a beautiful day.


	2. Chapter 1

Duncan inconspicuously shifts weight from one foot to the other while Arl Howe explains at length how and why assembling his men took longer than expected, and therefore will not be ready to set out for Ostagar before tomorrow.

_With this __approach the man will miss his own funeral one day_, Duncan thinks while making sure his face shows nothing but polite interest. _If this example spreads, the darkspawn will pour over us in no time at all._

His thoughts stray from the conversation to the young swordsmen in the courtyard. _That Gilmore does look promising… and the Teyrn's younger son even more so._

_Not that there is a chance that Teyrn Bryce would ever let me recruit _him_._

As if summoned by Duncan's thought, the highly desirable recruit-not-to-be enters, his hair still damp as he washed after the training. He is a younger version of Bryce himself: dark-haired and dark-eyed, but with lighter bones and features refined by the heritage from Teyrna Eleanor. He moves with an air of self-confidence, yet lacking the arrogance so typical of many noble offspring.

Duncan watches Ned Cousland's exchange with Arl Howe: obviously, the Arl has also recognized the young man's potentials – _now, was that mention of his daughter a bid?_

_Oh yes, it was, and unwelcome, judging by the reaction._

Arl Howe smiles somewhat sourly at the perfectly polite refusal, and the Teyrn sighs preposterously. "'Too young to marry' – remind me to get you a wooden sword next time I'm around a merchant." Contrary to the words, he puts his hand on his second-born's shoulder with apparent love and pride. "Ned, a little change of plans. Arl Howe's men won't make it here until tomorrow, while our preparations are almost finished. Fergus will take the command and leave as planned while I stay for the time being and depart together with Arl Howe." A wink. "One more night of parental supervision before you are in charge of the castle."

_Was that a blush?_

The young man's eyes glance to Duncan, then return to his father questioningly.

"Oh. Forgive my manners. This is Duncan, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden."

And so they first meet eye to eye. _By the Maker, I will take the risk_, Duncan thinks as the dark eyes assess him with the piercing sight he only rarely sees. _It's definitely worth it._

* * *

"Tsk. So much ado because of one under-sized rat." Gilmore pokes at the rodent in question with the tip of his sword.

Ned chuckles. "Rather, because of one over-sized mabari," he observes, "though one'd say there _were_ at least a dozen." Wolf barks in agreement and Ned absent-mindedly pats his head. "Actually, now that I think of it – weren't there a dozen?"

"As my Lord says. And, did anyone mention over-sized?"

The idea is truly entertaining. "Right. I suppose that's exactly the kind of stuff my mother's guests would love to hear."

"Lovely Lady Landra, I see."

Ned rolls his eyes. "Andraste be blessed that she does not have a daughter, or else she would try to pair me with her. – Arl Howe has tried his luck on me with Delilah… again."

Gilmore's eyes glint with mischief. "Chased, are you?"

Ned glares at him and Gilmore quickly switches to another topic. "Speaking of Lady Landra, what about that little elfling she brought with her?"

"What elfling?"

"No idea – too well-dressed for a mere servant. You're going to find out soon enough once you take up your guest-entertaining duties."

Ned raises his brow with interest. "Pleasant duties, for a change? Well, why not – as long as I don't have to marry her."

"I'm sure marriage is not the point here."

As they leave the larder, Ned returns in his thoughts to the issue that he has been pondering for some time. "While you were pre-occupied watching pretty little elves, did you notice that we have yet another guest – a Grey Warden?"

Gilmore stops. "A Grey Warden?"

"Yes. Looking for new recruits – it seems that father suggested that you would qualify."

"_We can always use capable young men like your friend… or yourself."_

To shun away the disturbing idea, Ned hastily adds: "But of course, they didn't see how you dropped your sword today."

Gilmore, however, totally ignores the punch. "Me, a _Grey Warden_?"

Ned blinks in disbelief at his tone. "You are actually _thrilled_?"

His friend seems genuinely surprised. "Why shouldn't I? It's an honour! For one like me… Don't you know the stories?"

"Flying griffons and stuff, yes," Ned snaps, irrationally annoyed.

"_Capable men… like yourself."_

"_I don't have so many sons as to sacrifice them for the Wardens' cause."_

He realizes that Gilmore has asked him something. "What? – Yes, of course, take your leave."

"_Me, a Grey Warden?"_

Ned shakes his head and slowly ascends the stairs to perform his host's duties.

_Let's see the entertainment there._

_

* * *

_

An utter and total waste of time.

Young Gilmore asked for some time to make up his mind and the Teyrn made clear that he was not going to press the issue – after all, what difference if Duncan leaves with Fergus Cousland today or with Bryce himself tomorrow?

_Leaving today would spare me one social occasion._

Yet, one does not turn down requests of mighty noblemen, especially if they have been more than benevolent so far.

_And so I am here, the main attraction of the evening: the fearsome darkspawn killer. __'Oh, tell us the tales.'_

Luckily, soon enough the conversation shifts from darkspawn to the Teyrn's recent journey to Orlais and Duncan has more time to observe the other end of the table.

The dreamy-eyed daughter-in-law with her young son excuse themselves and retire early, lady Landra's son sees mostly to his cup of wine and young Ned divides his attention between his father's conversation and Landra's elven lady-in-waiting. With amusement, Duncan notices that the little elf is eyeing Ned every time she thinks he is not looking. Not before long they are exchanging glances, and Duncan hides a smile in his beard: Iona is not going to sleep in her bed tonight, or he knows nothing of young men at all. A pretty sweet thing she is, with clear purple eyes and hair so light blond that it looks almost silvery.

Duncan is not the only one to notice the exchange, though: Teyrna Eleanor shoots a warning glance or two in the direction of her son who pretends not to understand.

_Are there truly some vices under that smooth cover?_

_Not that it matters__ now._ He should be grateful that his hint at recruiting the Teyrn's son was not taken as an offence by either Cousland; the opulent dinner is the only repercussion he has to fear.

His fear proves true later at night when the heavy stomach prevents him from sleep till he finally gives up the attempts. Annoyed, he puts on his clothes: a little walk in the fresh air would serve him well.

As he moves past the open window, something in the courtyard below draws his attention. It takes a while before his brain acknowledges what it was that he glimpsed with his very eyes: men running across, almost hidden in the dark.

Many men, and armed.

With one swift move, Duncan bars the door and with the efficiency gained by years of practice he starts donning his armour.


	3. Chapter 2

At first, Ned is not aware what woke him, and in half-sleep he presses closer to the warm female body. Iona shifts a little, and then he hears it: a deep guttural growl. He rises on his elbow abruptly: never before had he heard Wolf growl like that.

Woken by his movement, Iona sits up. "My lord?" she whispers uneasily. "What is going on?"

"Hush." Subdued by the mabari's growl, there is a faint noise from the outside which Ned cannot discern. Wolf continues growling and begins to scratch the door.

Ned softly curses and gets out of the bed. "Quiet, Wolf," he orders but the dog does not heed him, so he curses again and pulls the dog away from the door. It takes all his strength to restrain it: Wolf is all tensed, its fur standing.

He doesn't not realize that Iona has got up, too, until she is already by the door. "I'll take a look," she says and opens the door even as he says, "Wait, I'll –"

The open door lets in some light, and an echo of – _screams_?

_Clinging metal._

Then there is a swish and Iona gasps, staggering backwards, and issues a gargling sound as she collapses on the floor.

Ned freezes, his eyes transfixed on the arrow sticking from the base of her throat.

Free of restraint, Wolf springs forward – at the man with a bare sword in his hand who darts in the chamber. The man goes down with a scream which brings Ned back from the stupor: he makes for the door and bars it shut. The chamber is dark again, and quiet except for Wolf's panting.

Outside, there are running feet and shouting voices.

_Great Maker, what has befallen?_

Ned pulls away the curtain to let in some light and pushes the window open: the screams and the sounds of fight are unmistakable. He violently shakes his head. _Who is attacking us?_

He startles as a loud blow hits the door and his palms turn wet: _they are breaking through._

Now, that _will_ take some time.

His hands still tremble as he rushes to put on his clothes and armour. He does not bother with all the straps and buckles and is finished long before the door starts showing signs of giving way.

One more thing to be done, though.

Crossing the corpse with the torn throat, Ned picks Iona's body and puts it gently on the bed. "You saved my life," he whispers hoarsely before he pulls the blanket over her. "And if I survive this night, I promise I'll pay my debt."

Then, just as another blow is due, he jerks the door open.

* * *

The corridors are filling with smoke: the library and the eastern wing are already aflame.

Ned's eyes burn: on their way they pass bodies, bodies, bodies.

_Servants, guards, everyone._

_Gentle Oriana, who had never wielded anything more deadly than a needle, died in fight, protecting her son with her own body._

_Oren's eyes remain widened in sheer terror, his throat mercilessly slit._

_How does one grab a six-year-old by the hair to pull his head back for the blade?_

He hears mother sob quietly but she keeps up with him – and not for an instant does she hesitate to bring down any enemy they encounter, aiming her arrows with deadly precision.

At the end of the winding stairs they are ambushed: Wolf yelps as a sword strikes its shoulder. Ned thrusts his sword in the man's chest, in the middle of the Howe emblem.

_Howe._

_Arl Rendon Howe, who smiled and shook their hands and dined at their table._

Ned feels blood trickling down his arm but does not heed: his sword and arm are one, and cut through the mail and meat and bone alike.

When the last man falls with an arrow in his eye, Ned is almost disappointed.

"Wait here," his mother commands and darts into the corridor leading to the treasury. "If they come before I'm back, run on your own."

"_I will not have the family heritage fall into the hands of that treacherous filth."_

Ned wipes his forehead, listening for the sound of rushing footsteps, for the victorious roar of Howe's men breaking through.

"_Hurry, my Lady, my Lord." Gilmore has a long scratch over the face, his __red hair is scorched. "We have managed to bar the main door and will hold it for some time. Hurry. Please."_

_That's probably the last I've seen of him._

Teyrna Eleanor re-emerges, carrying a sword and a shield.

The Cousland family sword, the shield of Highever.

"Take these," she says. "They are better than yours."

Ned hesitates. "I'd better keep those I'm used to, for the time being. Bear them for me, will you?"

Only a while later he regrets his decision.

The enemies are but three – two men-at-arms, and a knight.

A knight in a full plate armour. Stronger, heavier, and fresher. Ned's strikes are blocked with steel while Ned himself has to cover every single blow – and his arms already feel heavy like lead.

He cannot risk to look how mother is faring with the other two men but no-one has attacked him from behind yet, meaning she's still holding.

Unlike himself.

He dodges too slowly and a shield blow sends him to the ground, half stunned. He manages only to his knees before another blow comes, aimed at his head. He blocks it but loses balance, and moves the shield to cover his side only partially.

He cries and curls as the blade slashes at his ribs.

The final blow never comes; when Ned looks up, the knight is lying on his back, protecting his face against a fury of chestnut fur.

Ned thrusts his sword through the visor of the helm, between the gauntleted fingers.

Then his mother is at his side, anxiously repeating his name. Ned gasps as she feels the wound and expertly stuffs in a piece of cloth. At her urging, he finally gets up and staggers, heavily leaning on her shoulder.

"_The Teyrn is gravely wounded. Duncan carried him to the larder. Hurry, my Lady."_

_Great Maker, don't let father die._


	4. Chapter 3

_Curse it__._

Duncan runs into a small group of Howe's men, and loses some more time before he cuts his way through.

_Curse it, curse it, curse it._

When he reaches the first floor, smoke drives him to bad cough. The fact that he does not encounter any living enemies in this part of the castle is rather bad news than good: by what he sees, their work is already done here.

_This must have been the first place the bastards went to._

* * *

"_Aaah!"_

_Duncan lays the wounded man on the floor as gently as he can, yet even so, Bryce Cousland writhes in pain and even more slicky entrails make their way out of the sliced abdomen, their content mixing with blood. Duncan grits his teeth. Whatever healing potions he has on him, they will not suffice – not for a wound like this, not without a prompt intervention of a skilled healer._

_Teyrn Bryce, though still breathing, is already a dead man, and both of them know it. Yet, Duncan hesitates, loath to do what he must_. I wish I could figure out something…

"_Duncan…" The bloodied fingers clutch at his forearm. "Help me…"_

Great Maker, if only there was a way, I'd gladly do it…

"_...find them, save… my family."_

_Duncan freezes. The sounds from outside do not make it to the larder, yet he can well imagine that Howe's men are concentrating their efforts on breaking through. Going back would be a suicide._

"_Please…" Bryce's breath is shallow and rapid._

"_I –" _How does one tell a dying man that this is not my fight?

"_I know… I have no right to ask that of you… but I do beg of you." Bryce Cousland stares at him with widened eyes, then he brings out his ace. "If… you do, I… will let you recruit Ned."_

_Duncan sharply inhales. _The gain has surplused the risk, it would seem_. "I cannot promise anything but I will try."_

* * *

No living enemies but a good deal of dead ones, struck with sword and arrow, and bearing marks of teeth. Yet, he ought to check for himself.

The sight of the body under the blanket makes Duncan's breath catch in his throat before he realizes that it's too tiny. He pulls the blanket off the face.

The elf, Iona.

And the armour stack is empty.

Duncan turns on the heel and runs back, feeling in his feet the loud thuds resonating through the whole structure.

And there are also sounds of renewed fighting from the main hall: Gilmore's men cannot hold for long.

_Curse it again._

Duncan sheaths his sword and pushes open the window at the stair landing – big deal, though better than the first floor. He hangs by his fingers for a moment, trying to find a foothold, but the smooth wall offers none, and so he briefly addresses the Maker and lets go.

To his own surprise, he manages to balance the fall.

_Not bad, for an old man._

Not wasting any more time, he speeds to the larder, pausing only briefly at the body with a torn off face.

Hopefully, this means what he thinks.

* * *

Tears blind him as Ned stumbles down the corridor, following the dim torch in Duncan's hand. The escape route is narrow, its walls closing in on him like a grave.

"_Go. Go, my son. Live."_

His heart throbs frantically, making him short of breath.

"_I cannot leave you!"_

Yet, this is exactly what he has done: left his parents to die at Howe's hands, to save his own wretched life.

The fact that this was their last wish makes it no easier: Ned almost chokes with hatred of himself, and guilt.

_I should have remained there with them._

_I will never see them again!_

He trips over and with a sob he falls to his knees. _How could I have abandoned them?_

"_I won't leave you!"_

_Mother grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him violently. "You will. You must live, for us, for yourself, for Fergus. Go!"_

Urged by Wolf's soft whining, Ned scrambles to his feet, pressing his hand against the wounded side. Duncan briefly turns to check if they still follow, then hurries on and Ned does his best to keep up.

_There is blood, blood everywhere: on his father's hands and face, spills on the floor around his body. __"Duncan will get you to safety… In exchange, I promised that you will join the Wardens' cause."_

On and on Ned staggers, securing himself against the walls.

"_Will you abide by my word, son?"_

_Do I have a choice?_

_Father!_

Unexpectedly, Duncan comes to a halt: a ladder. He quickly examines the trap door and gestures with his hand: _silence_. Then he puts out the torch.

In the complete darkness, Ned feels breathless and sags to his knees. He shudders as if in fever, his limbs feels heavy and he is painfully aware of the unfamiliar weight on his shoulder.

"_Here." With a quick move, mother claps the Cousland sword to his belt and burdens his shoulder with the shield of Highever. "I will keep yours instead." Briefly, she cups his face in her hands and kisses him on __the mouth. "Go now."_

For what seems like ages, Ned hears only his own ragged breath and Wolf's even panting until there is a creak of wood and then he can discern a paler outline of the exit.

"No-one around," Duncan whispers somewhere above. The ladder creaks under the Grey Warden's weight as he descends again. "We have to get your dog up."

They do, sweating and cursing under their breath, while Wolf, unused to ladders, violently scratches with his paws. With Duncan's help, Ned climbs up and collapses on the floor of the abandoned barn.

He doesn't think that he'd ever be able to get up again but Duncan thinks differently: he pulls Ned to his feet and supports him as they make their way along a scrubby path in the hollow.

When they reach the edge of the wood, Ned pauses to look back: the horizon is lit with a red blaze.

* * *

The reality returns with opening his eyes; the change of time and place as if came to pass within a blink. The spot under the low beech branches looks unfamiliar; the leaves, hemmed with droplets of rain, stand clear against the cloudy sky. Birdsong, not very far away, yet hushed by the fog…

An instant of serenity, and then it's gone as memories return. Memories, or nightmares, as Ned would hope, but as he tenses, the revived pain of his wounds confirms that the last night was no dream at all. The air, just a moment ago so fresh, suddenly carries the stench of blood and smoke.

Involuntarily, Ned grasps for the hilt of his sword, which is not there, and nor is his armour; the upper part of his body is bare except for the bandages, under a grey cloak.

Grey…

A movement at the edge of sight makes Ned startle before he recognizes the familiar chestnut fur. The dog limps to him; his left front paw bandaged, yet pries his nose to Ned's face with the usual vigour.

With foresight gained by practice, Ned quickly moves aside before Wolf can trample over his groins, and winces as the wounded side protests against such treatment.

"Carefully, buddy, your master could certainly do without extra damage."

Wolf turns his head and softly barks as if in apology. Ned also turns, though much more slowly, to face the owner of the grey cloak who is sitting with his back against the tree trunk, repairing a piece of armour – Ned's own armour, in fact.

"How are you feeling?" Duncan asks, casting a quick glance at Ned in his usual disturbing fashion.

Ned ponders the answer for a moment. "Cold," he replies, as he realizes the chill creeping in his toes and fingers; the chill that he can feel inside has nothing to do with temperature.

The dark eyes glance at him again. "And your wounds? Will you be able to walk? I still have a potion or two left but I'd like to spare these for chance's sake, before I can get replacement."

Instead of an answer, Ned attempts to sit up, pushing aside Wolf's over-eager snout. The pain remains bearable. "It would seem so," he assesses at last.

"That is good. We should set out as soon as possible. This place is hardly safe, and we've much to do."

"_'We'_," Ned repeats, his mouth twisting. The dark eyes set on his face, unmoving. "Tell me, Duncan," Ned continues, ignoring the sudden tension, "are Grey Wardens allowed to carry out revenge?"

They stare in each other's eye till Duncan finally replies. "Dealing with the threat of the darkspawn is the foremost and utmost goal and must not be imperilled by any action of yours. If you act within these boundaries, you will have my full support in bringing Arl Howe to justice."

Slowly, as he comes to understand the full meaning, Ned lowers his head. "Then I'm yours, as was promised."

Duncan nods, as if no other answer could have been anticipated. "So you are. There is no turning back now."

"There's nowhere to go, anyway." Ned's eyes involuntarily search the horizon for the familiar sight but the thick trees offer no clue of the direction. "Where are we? I don't recall this place from the last night."

"A bit further from the Highever than we were when you passed out. I carried you some way before I could find a suitable shelter."

"You _carried_ me?" The Grey Warden's lithe figure must be hiding unexpected strength, though Ned himself is also of lighter build.

Duncan's teeth flash in sudden smile. "My back protests even now. A man of my age should probably know better but I was most afraid that your dog would start snapping at my heels if I just dragged you."

Wolf scowls in protest and Ned pats his back. "Easy," he mutters, "easy, boy."

The mabari casts one more offended look at Duncan and ostentatiously turns away. The man chuckles. "What do you call him, by the way?"

"Wolf."

Duncan's brows rise. "You've got a peculiar sense of humour."

"Mother was pretty mad at me when she learned. She –" The face of Teyrna Eleanor, streaked with blood, her green eyes the only remaining spots of colour in the pale countenance, rises before his mind's eye. Ned gasps as his throat painfully tightens. He crouches, all of a sudden feeling weak and dizzy. With surprise he realizes that his eyes remain dry, as if all tears were spent the previous night, and it pains him even more so.

He doesn't hear Duncan move but his hands unexpectedly rest on Ned's shoulders. "I am sorry." The compassion in his voice is real but tears still do not come and the pain rips Ned from inside, making him tremble.

"Do not resist it, lad." Duncan's voice is soft and warm. "Let go. Cry. There is no shame in it."

"I… cannot."

Duncan wraps Ned in his cloak and makes him take a sip of some suspicious ale from a small flask. It burns Ned's throat but as the warmth descends to his stomach, the tremble finally recedes. Wolf dances around, softly whining, till Ned finally reaches to him and embraces the thick warm neck, pressing his cheek against it. The fur is slightly damp, and issues the familiar smell, which after some time becomes too much to bear. Ned straightens cautiously. He would much rather lie down but the provisionary bed in the leaves is not very inviting. "We had better set out," he says. "I should be able to walk slowly. What is your plan?"

"To get closer to the city and find you a safe place to rest while I get some provisions and horses, and a healer."

"And after that?"

"Ostagar. We have a rendezvous with the darkspawn which we shouldn't miss."


	5. Chapter 4

From the ruins of the barbican, they overlook the camped army, both wrapped in cloaks against the chilly wind that started to blow as the sun set its course to the west.

After a while, Duncan clears his throat. "We should proceed, so that you get put up for the night."

Ned does not respond, only looks up at the still impressive remnants of the ancient towers and then seeks the glint of the King's golden armour in distance. When he finally speaks, it is obvious that he has not heard a word. "How could he _ever_ think he would get away…" He shakes his head and wipes his face with his hand. "If only there was a way I could warn Fergus… Why, of all the people, why did _he_ have to be sent to a scouting mission? I must speak to him as soon as he returns. Maybe tomorrow –"

Duncan coughs again. "I am afraid that there will not be the time to wait for your brother. Tomorrow you will have to set out for a mission of your own."

Ned turns abruptly. "What do you mean? Don't you realize that his life is in danger? Never, ever, could Howe hope that he would get away with what he did as long as Fergus lives!"

"I do realize this but there is no telling when Fergus is going to return. You cannot wait for him here, we are short of time."

The young man breathes rapidly. "I have promised to join your cause, not to abandon the single family I have left!"

"No-one is asking you that," Duncan makes an attempt at appeasement. _Though it may happen in the long run._ "Should Fergus return in your absence, I will see to it that he is informed immediately, or pass on any message you deign to leave with me."

"It is _my_ duty to inform him!"

"Your duties now lie elsewhere, do not forget that."

"And what is so urgent about this mission that it requires my presence?" Ned gives him a look inherited from Teyrna Eleanor but Duncan has seen worse.

"Take it as a test of sorts."

"Then why did you want me so badly if you were not sure I was suitable?"

"One can be wrong."

Ned continues glaring at him for a while, then downcasts his eyes. When he looks up again, the blank expression that Duncan has become more than familiar with during the last fortnight is back in place. "Are there any other duties that I should fulfil?"

Duncan does not sigh even though he much wants to. _Not that I can really blame the boy, can I._ "Not today. There will be some time before you leave tomorrow, to do what's necessary."

"Fine."

As he turns to leave, Duncan puts his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Ned. Most likely, you will be back even before your brother returns."

The shoulder under his hand is stiff like a stone. "And in case that he returns before me, I take you by your word that you immediately tell him what he needs to know."

"Of course." Duncan hesitates. "You… may wish to think out what I am to tell him."

"Oh, never mind that. Just tell him anything along the line 'dear brother, I spectacularly failed protecting your wife and son whom you entrusted in my care'. I haven't been able to make up anything better during the last two weeks, maybe you will." Heading towards the entrance, Ned adds over his shoulder: "And don't forget that part how I abandoned mother and father to save my ass and become a big hero in the Wardens."

Duncan sighs.

Then he sighs again. Even the mabari is looking at him with reproach.

_Maker, let's just hope this doesn't get any worse._

The darkspawn somehow seem to be less complicated to deal with.

_

* * *

_

_Putting down mages is good_, Alistair decides, _albeit just verbally_. His good mood disappears, though, as he notices a man approaching him through the ruins.

A man – alright, a young man, about the same age as himself.

_Must be the new recruit from Highever_. For Andraste's sake, not yet another bloody aristocrat, one ser knight is exactly one ser more than Alistair can stand at the moment. Oh yes, polite enough, that _Ser_ Jory, but way too caring about who is and who is not a _ser_.

But it seems that Alistair's portion of luck for today has run out with the mage. The air of self-confidence, the garbs, the looks – definitely an aristocrat. The suspicion is confirmed as soon as the new recruit opens his mouth: the perfected, modulated articulation of someone whose parents invested a good deal of money in his education. "You must be Alistair."

"Yes, that's me. Alistair, the new Grey Warden. And you must be the recruit Duncan brought from Highever. I forgot your name?"

A slight pause. "I am Ned."

Now, _that's_ a surprise, since all the noble sons Alistair has encountered certainly never missed a chance to boast with their surname – but this one may not have heard yet that there is a certain serve-maid's bastard around.

They eye each other for a moment, then nod in greeting, both unsure if they like what they see or not. Alistair is aware that he is grinning too much, the way he does when intent on provocation, and this Ned maintains too calm a face to call it polite.

"Duncan said –" they both start and come to a halt. Alistair chuckles. "Duncan says a lot of things," he picks up, "but what you probably had on mind was that I am to accompany you on a mission in the Wilds, together with the other recruits. Have you met them?"

"Daveth and Jory. Yes, I have."

Not _Ser_ Jory. Interesting. "Fine. If you are ready –" by the looks of him, he is – "we can pick them up and check with Duncan for instructions. Or is there anything else you need?"

Ned hesitates. "And why exactly is it that you have to accompany us?"

Alistair flashes a broad smile. "Don't worry, I won't put you to shame. Duncan will tell you what you need to know."

Ned does not swallow the bait. "Let's find Duncan, then."

They make their way through the camp in uneasy silence till Ned suddenly asks: "How did you become a Grey Warden?"

Alistair glances at him but that calm expression remains unchanged, so he just shrugs; it's no secret, after all. "I was training as a Templar in the Chantry, and hated every second of it. When Duncan came up with his offer, I simply jumped at the chance. I guess my training against mages could be of better use against the darkspawn – certainly better than sitting at the Chantry somewhere. I'm not exactly the religious type." And, since the question is at hand and he is curious enough, he asks: "And why did you want to be a Grey Warden?"

Again that pause. "I did not. It was a matter of keeping one's word, so I am here."

The bitterness behind the calm tone is obvious, and Alistair pauses at mid-step to take a full look at his companion. Duncan did mention some problems at Highever but no details. That will have to wait until their return.

_Unless, of course, I manage to sat__isfy my curiosity on my own._


	6. Chapter 5

"Maker's balls!" Daveth shudders with disgust as he unsuccessfully tries to remove the slime that covers his legs up to mid-thigh. Then he shrieks when a giant leech slides out of his greaves and makes its way back to the muddy pool.

_You were right, Duncan, I really do not want my dog out here_, Ned thinks, _not when a single side-step gets you in the company of_ these.

"How far yet?" Jory asks through gritted teeth.

"Far enough." Alistair's tone is not quite as jolly as it was when they set out. "It'll be better when we finally get to a higher ground."

"Which will be when?" Daveth, it seems, has also run out of jokes.

"As soon as you blow this fog away so that we could see where we are going."

_A lame one, Alistair._

They proceed in silence for a while.

"What's that over there?" Once again, Daveth proves the sharpest eyesight. 'That' turns out to be a speck of higher ground, with ruins of some structures drowning in the swamp around. Alistair produces his map, by this time almost as wet and muddy as himself.

"Good," he states after a while. "I know where we are now. Slightly off the course, but not much. The marsh will be soon over."

Ned tries to catch a glimpse of the map over his shoulder – he is almost sure there were no damned ruins anywhere next to their original course – but he keeps quiet. _Pointing out that we are a bit lost is about as good as trying to make Jory shut up about his wife and the child-to-arrive-soon._

The very thought makes him swallow hard once again: every single hint at wives and children invariably brings about the image of Oren and Oriana, lying in their blood.

Without any debate they make their way for the ruins: the idea of solid ground under their feet for a change is definitely appealing.

As they come nearer, Alistair suddenly halts and draws his sword. "Darkspawn," he hisses, motioning towards the ruins.

"Shouldn't we retreat?"

Alistair responds Daveth with his usual broad grin. "Too late, sunshine. If I can sense _them_, they can sense _me_. You really don't want to leave these behind. Let's go and kick their asses before they kick ours."

* * *

"_Aaaaaaaaarrrgh_!" Jory has finally woken from whatever stupor held him and now chops through any darkspawn that occur within the reach of his two-handed blade. Aaaaaaaaarrrgh!"

_I just wish he weren't so loud when fighting_, Alistair thinks as he cuts off the head of one genlock and bashes another in the face before running it through. _Just a little louder and we're all knocked out_.

Temporarily out of enemies, he checks how the others are coping. The ex-thief is quite proficient with his bow while keeping at a safe distance, and the reticent aristocrat is doing a profound job with his sword and shield, even protecting Jory's flank while the knight is absorbed in a bout of battle fury.

_Most unaristocratically muddy and gory – though one must give him the credit for not complaining so far._

With the fight soon over, Alistair reaches his Warden's sense: no more darkspawn around. Only then does he take a full look around and notices the grisly decoration of cut-off heads and hanging bodies. "So excessive," he shakes his head. "Must have been an unlucky scouting patrol." A rather disgusting sight, even for him who has seen this before – little wonder that Daveth and Jory look as if they are about to throw out their lunch.

Their reaction, though, is next to nothing compared to Ned's – 'paler than death' seems like a gross understatement. Alistair briefly thinks something about touchy noble stomachs before he realizes that this is not the case as Ned makes a few steps towards the corpses, glancing from one to another.

"Er… anyone you knew?"

It takes a while before Ned turns back to him, his expression blank again. "It doesn't seem so." He takes a deep breath. "What are we going to do about them?"

_Oops_. "Uhm, nothing? – Unless you wish to spend the rest of the day climbing the ruins to fetch every single piece and then set for the night in the middle of a swamp?" _Not to mention that the only way to give someone a burial around here is to dump them in the said swamp_.

"Oh." _My, he does look embarrassed_. "I guess you're right."

_Now, I don't hear _that_ one very often – I guess I'm getting to like you, for an aristocrat._

One more job to be done, though. Alistair produces the vials Duncan had given him and kneels down for the unsavoury procedure. He certainly does not expect the recruits to assist him and is even more surprised when after a moment Ned kneels next to him.

"What is the blood for?"

Not an unexpected question. "You will learn in time," Alistair replies casually. Ned gives him a look but does not press the issue. Instead, he observes the hurlock's deformed features.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

Ned raises his eyes. "I could think of worse sights."

A trail in his voice makes Alistair look at him but Ned abruptly stands up, turning to Daveth and Jory.

"Alright." Alistair does his best to wipe his hands on the mossy ground and gets up, too. "Time to move on. More walking, more darkspawn ahead. Can't really say which one is more thrilling."

* * *

"You fight very well," Jory remarks with genuine admiration as they sit down by a small campfire. "Where did you receive such training?"

"From the knights of father's household," Ned replies, unthinking, and bites his tongue a moment too late.

Jory's eyes open wide as the true meaning of the emblem on Ned's shield dawns on him. "But then – then you must be Teyrn Bryce's son!"

Alistair and Daveth raise their heads in shock, then exchange glances. _A Teyrn's son!_ Ned can guess the unspoken. Unsure what to say, he nods in confirmation.

Jory seems both excited and bewildered by the discovery. "But – but – this is most unexpected… my Lord. I – I did not recognize you…"

"Ned. Just Ned. No titles among the Wardens, so I am told." He clutches tight the hand they cannot see.

"Yes – of course. I just…I hold your father in utmost respect. How is the Teyrn? And –"

The fire leaps high at that moment and Ned hears himself say in a sharp voice. "The last I have seen of him, he was lying in a pool of blood among his own guts, and since the castle burned down shortly after, I doubt there is very much to say." Taking a breath, Ned does not dare to look at their astonished faces. He only springs from his place and strides from the fire, into the woods, not heeding where he is going until he stumbles and almost falls. He secures himself against a tree and wipes his eyes, only to burst out sobbing. The wall that held the tears back for the last fortnight finally broke through.

If all the darkspawn came down on him at that moment, he would not care.

When he regains control of himself, he realizes that it has gone utterly dark. Instinctively, he grasps the hilt and tries to tune his senses in the darkness.

The fire is nowhere to be seen.

Cursing his own foolishness, Ned slowly starts making his way in what he considers to be the direction whence he came.

A branch cracks somewhere to his right and his sword leaps in his hand even before he can recognize a dark shape moving away from a tree.

"No need to fear, it's me." To his relief, he recognizes Alistair's voice. "You have ventured far. Shall we return?"

Ned's first reaction is anger, and embarrassment: how long has he been standing there? _All the time, it would seem_. However, the realization why Alistair must have been there washes the anger away and leaves Ned feeling empty.

"Thank you," he mutters uneasily, "for watching my back."

"Wherever, whenever." Ned cannot see Alistair's face but can well imagine the ex-Templar's eternal grin. There is no trace of laughter, though, when he adds: "For what it's worth, I am sorry – but what happened? We are not in the middle of war all of a sudden, are we?"

Ned has to breathe very slowly, to keep the suddenly rising wrath at bay. "Arl Rendon Howe – my father's _friend_ Arl Rendon Howe – paid a visit, and at night his men attacked and slaughtered everyone. I do not know the reason, or how he intended to get away with it, but I _will_ have his head for that. Duncan promised me his support as long as I do not cross with the Wardens' goals."

"And you will have it." Alistair's voice has an edge Ned never imagined it could gain. "You will. – The support I mean, though, on a second thought, the head should not be so difficult to arrange, too. I take it Arl Howe never expected anyone to survive – does he even know that you live? He might be for a nasty surprise when he turns up. Have you informed the king?"

"He was outraged, and I also spoke with Teyrn Loghain."

Alistair laughs humourlessly. "That should make the sentence sealed, shouldn't it? I really love the way the things are going – darkspawn first, Arl Howe next, and then back to hold a feast. Lovely."

They continue making their way through the undergrowth and with relief, they soon see the flickering fire of their camp. Alistair clears his throat. "There's one more thing – may I ask how come that Duncan recruited you, given the circumstances?"

Ned banishes the image of his father's drawn face. "It was the price for my life. I wouldn't have made it alive on my own – so he helped, and had his recruit. But as long as I can deliver Howe to justice, I do not care what happens to me any more." And he makes for the camp where Jory and Daveth visibly relax at their return – both curious but neither bold enough to ask any more questions.

Ned is grateful for the silence, as well as for the fact that Alistair takes the first watch and uncompromisingly sends them to get some sleep. Sleep does not come easily, though – Ned watches a solitary star above the peak of a tall fir for what seems to be ages.

Next thing he knows it is chilly morning, and Alistair is waking him. Ned realizes that no-one woke him for the watch, and Alistair explains: "I took your watch, so maybe you could return the favour. Can your lordship cook?"


	7. Chapter 6

Her skin is unbelievably smooth, for one who spends her time outdoors and moves through the Wilds with self-confident grace.

Noble ladies use extravagant Orlesian ointments to achieve such smoothness, with dubious effect.

That smoothness must probably come from the touch of the mist from which she stepped out.

"_You may call me Morrigan."_

_The Witch of the Wilds._

_I never imagined witches so… beautiful._

Instantly, Ned is reminded of a rose bush in the corner of mother's garden: a rare breed, brought from Nevarra, or Antiva, or elsewhere, the family history is somehow obscure at this point. It is exceedingly beautiful, and excessively thorny; the blossoms and the thorns of the same colour, the deep rich red of vein blood.

Never, ever, did anyone manage to pluck a single flower without getting scratched.

"_Some flowers are simply to be watched, not touched,"_ mother remarked once.

Yet, his hands itch for the touch, of the smoothness so barely covered –

The memory of his mother, and of the last woman who shared his bed, bring him back to reality.

_She would probably freeze me on the spot if she knew what I was thinking about – or scorch me with a flame since her eyes are like fire?_

Though, he would have _sworn_ that she swayed her hips somewhat more, as if she knew that he was looking.

_Not that it matters – I will never see her again, anyway._

_And I do sincerely hope that I will never have to face her mother, I had a feeling that she could tear every single one of us to shreds if she chose to._

_No, it's not the colour of fire, it's…_

* * *

Left, right, left, right….

Alistair hastily averts his eyes. Staring at the swaying hips of a most unpleasant witch with a talent for making everyone look like a total idiot is not the brightest idea, namely if the particular witch is the only one knowing where they are heading.

_I sure don't. My map somehow lacks in the locations of suspicious huts inhabited by even more suspicious ancient witches._

_Not to mention the lack of "Way Back" signs around._

Most surprisingly, she has not led them right into the middle of a swamp…yet.

_If she does, I do hope that she _will_ turn us into toads – wait, I suppose drowning is still better than being devoured by, uhm, no, I don't want to know what toad-eaters live in the swamp._

_Though, there is hardly anything more scary around than _her_._

_Alright, her _mother_._

For something like hundredth time, Alistair pats his pouch, making sure that the treaties are still there. He never expected that the old crone would actually hand them over, and when she did, he was somewhat surprised they did not turn into dry leaves.

_Not that this may not happen later__ – she's definitely the type who enjoys such jokes._

The memory of the old, cackling voice is definitely one that is going to haunt him in his dreams.

"_This Blight is more serious than they realize" – what did she mean?_

_Not that I'm going back askin'._

_Ever._

And he sincerely hopes that he will not have to endure such talks and looks for, well, at least the rest of his life?

But as Alistair knows by now, fate or Maker or whoever responsible never let him enjoy a peaceful moment, so he may bet that he's going to run into the likes of the two witches again. And when the moment comes, he would much like to have one outspoken aristocrat along – the good thing about having aristocrats around is that they can indulge in conversation with witches and not look _complete_ idiots, which somehow increases the reputation of the group as a whole.

Though, mister poker-face did also have his moment.

* * *

"_Is that a serious question?" By her tone, Morrigan hardly believes so._

"_This is what I was told: a white flower with a deep red centre, smelling of honey. It is used for curing the darkspawn poison in mabari. I am not an herbalist myself; therefore I perceive no pun in my question."_

So very civil, wow.

"_Oh. And have you ever been told that there is something like blooming season for every single kind of plant?"_

"_I believe I have come across the fact, though I do not possess the knowledge when that particular time comes for this particular flower." _

So very, very controlled, wow, wow.

"_I see. Now, that explains a lot." Saying that, Morrigan bends and picks a handful from the undergrowth of plants they have been wading through for some time. "Feel free to help yourself if you need some more."_

A red-eared aristocrat, wow, wow, wow.

* * *

When they come out into a clearing, Morrigan suddenly stops. "You're safely behind the marsh. Your camp is this way," she points with her elegant, and very bare, arm. "I suppose that you should be able to make your way from here without getting lost."

"Yes, Morrigan. Thank you for your company."

_Sweet Andraste, he even bows! And looks as if that snort she issued was a proper answer._

_Must be the breeding._

More or less relieved, the four men keep staring for a while in the direction where Morrigan disappeared.

Finally, Daveth voices a common opinion, though not very loudly, just for the sake: "A nice ass."


	8. Chapter 7

"So, your impressions?"

Alistair gives him an innocent look. "Hm… let me think. Fog so thick that you barely see your partner's back, mosquitoes buzzing in your ears like mad, leeches the size of your forearm, darkspawn lurking behind every corner – a beautiful trip, if I've ever seen one. – Yeah, I nearly forgot: a crazy ancient witch who claimed that she was taking care of our treaties."

Duncan's brows, slightly furrowed at the pretended lack of comprehension, fly high but it seems that the last sentence was no joke at all.

"Yes, an ancient witch, with a not-at-all ancient daughter," Alistair adds with a tinge of hurt in his voice. "The treaties are here, or it may be a pack of dry leaves, for all I know."

Duncan carefully inspects the parchments and seals while listening to Alistair's colourful account of the encounter. He shakes his head: no damage done, though he can't figure out why a witch of the wilds should be intent on safekeeping Grey Wardens' documents.

"Very well," he interrupts, "while your opinion on scantily clad attractive witches is more than clear, I'd like to hear what you think of our new recruits, unless you were too busy observing that Morrigan to take notice."

"Aah…."

_Now, who __do we have blushing here? Hopefully, you will do more than just observing one day when it comes to scantily dressed ladies. Constantly blushing the way you do, you're all too transparent. Though I do not doubt that some ladies will appreciate this._

Alistair clears his throat several times, apparently uneasy under Duncan's knowing glance. "Well, yes… the recruits. Did quite well, under the circumstances. Jory nearly talked off everyone's ears – do you know that he is quite a devoted husband?"

"I do. Let's hope that he will be equally devoted to our cause – after all, it is for the sake of his wife, as well. How did he do in the fight?"

"He was, uhm, sort of astounded with his first darkspawn – but when he got over it they were quite astounded with _him_, I can assure you. Totally speechless, when he finished."

Duncan cannot help but chuckle. _Never takes you long to recover, does it_. "And the other two?"

"Daveth complained about the lack of purses to cut off from the darkspawn – claimed that it would ruin his skill. Took on practicing with the bow instead – he's got an eye for it, I must admit." A pause, and a look from under the brows. "Ned…"

_So, you already know._

"Duncan, if I may ask – were you alright in your senses when you recruited him?"

"Why, Alistair, isn't he an impressive young man?"

Alistair impatiently shakes his head. "Oh come on, he is really good with sword, not stupid, either, even quite pleasant, for an aristocrat – but what's past me is how you could even _think_ about recruiting a _teyrn's_ son? Especially when his family is not particularly extensive these days?"

"Well, don't I have a knack for recruiting young men of the best blood?" Duncan watches with amusement as Alistair's expression turns sour.

"You simply _had_ to remind me of that, didn't you?" he pouts.

_Sure – by this time, I have already mastered the knack of shutting your mouth any time, at least just a little. _Squinting his eyes, Duncan asks: "Do you think I was wrong with him – or you, for that respect?"

This also provokes an anticipated reaction, with the seriousness rarely seen. "I will do my best not to fail you."

_I know you will_. And since he has already teased Alistair enough, he says it aloud. _Confidence is what you lack, just the confidence – everything else is already in there. _

_If only you talked less, at times._

"Why did you recruit him?" Alistair repeats softly.

_Because he is capable and I had the chance_. Duncan smiles and pats his shoulder. "Because you need someone along to improve your manners."

* * *

The Joining takes place further off the royal camp, in the ruins of what used to be a temple, among the rubble and fallen stones. A massive block of the broken wall serves as a table at which Duncan is leaning.

The seclusion of the place certainly does not dispel Jory's doubts, and soon enough he ends up in the usual what-else-is-required-of-us bickering with Daveth. As they approach Duncan, though, both fall silent. The senior Warden turns to them, revealing a massive silver chalice hidden from sight by his body, its significance more than obvious as he briefly explains the proceedings of the ritual. The memory of the dark fluid spattering him as Ned cut through the hurlock's arteries is sickening, and Jory openly voices the disgust while Daveth only breathes rapidly, keeping his head up. _"I'd sacrifice a lot more…"_ His example brings Jory to stop: a knight will not be put to shame by a mere pickpocket.

Nor will Ned dishonour the name of the Couslands: _if this is what it takes to be a Grey Warden, so be it._

_They did it_, he reminds himself, _even he did it_, watching Alistair's uncharacteristically grave expression as he recites the words of the Joining.

_We are called upon to submit ourselves__ to the taint for the greater good._

_This is it, then. There is no way back from now on._

Daveth, pale but calm, steps forward without hesitation. Ned admires the former thief for his determination: his own hands are cold and sweating. He watches Daveth take a drink and return the chalice to Duncan's hands.

Ned is about to let out breath in relief when something goes terribly awry: Daveth coughs and starts to wheeze; his hands fly to his throat. Suddenly, there is blood, trickling from his nostrils and mouth, from his eyes and ears. Daveth collapses on the ground and his body twitches in convulsions, and then moves no more.

"Maker's breath," Jory whispers, "he is dead!"

Duncan kneels to check Daveth's pulse and slowly shakes his head. "I am sorry, Daveth," he says softly, with his head bowed; then he stands up and resumes the chalice. "Step forward, Jory," he commands.

A moment before Jory realizes that this is meant seriously, that the ritual continues no matter what. "No!" His eyes flicker with panic. "I can't – I won't do this! I have a wife! There… there is no _glory_ in this!"

"Jory. It is too late to back out now." The warning in Duncan's voice makes the hair on Ned's nape stand but Jory does not heed. "_Jory_," he wants to say but his mouth is dry like ash. Petrified, he can only watch as Jory draws his sword, trying to retreat.

Ned does not see Duncan draw his own blade but suddenly it is in his hand, glistening white-red.

"Jory," Duncan says in a deep voice; whatever else he intended remains unsaid as he has to avoid a wide blow. Instead of backing, the senior Warden steps in and Jory freezes, staring at the blade buried under his chest bone. His eyes rise to Duncan's face and then lose focus as his legs give way and he collapses to Duncan's arms. "I am sorry," Duncan mutters, gently laying the body on the ground.

_Great Maker…_

As Duncan straightens, his face shows nothing. He wipes his dagger clean and returns to the stone with the chalice. "The Joining is not yet complete," he states. "Ned, step forward."

Ned feels his stomach tighten; his heart throbs in his ears and his fingertips feel numb. Then he meets Alistair's intent gaze: while it reflects his own horror, there is an air of determination about him which Ned finds oddly reassuring.

"I should have been dead already, anyway," he mutters and takes the chalice from Duncan's hands. He holds his breath and sips a mouthful, swallowing fast and hard for fear that he might retch if he dwelt on the taste too long.

The liquid slides down his throat: it does not taste like blood, or like anything else, and it feels unnaturally cold.

Ned looks at Duncan, unsure what is to follow, and then the pain hits: every nerve of his body burns with cold fire. His throat tightens, letting no air in, no scream out. The world blackens, and the image of Daveth's bleeding eyes is Ned's last conscious thought before his head tears apart.

_The dragon roars. Its eyes, pearly white without a pupil, gleam with fury. It can sense him, it can see him. The roar devours everything…_

Ned is lying on his back, weak and dizzy, bathing in cold sweat. As his vision clears, he can see Duncan and Alistair bending over him, their faces drawn with concern. They help him get up and embrace him: their brother, the new Grey Warden.

The only survivor of this Joining.

Over Duncan's shoulder, Ned can see Jory's lifeless form. "I cannot believe you killed him," he mutters.

Duncan holds him at arm's length. "What would follow if it became known that we drink darkspawn blood?" he asks quietly.

Ned closes his eyes and lowers his head. _"I'd sacrifice a lot more,"_ he remembers Daveth's words once again.

_Maker's breath, may I not be required to perform such sacrifices._

"Does this happen often?" he asks, not daring to raise his eyes.

"I've heard about it but once in all my years with the Wardens." Duncan presses his shoulder. "Now, go get some rest. The king wants you tomorrow at the War Council."

"Me?" Ned is still slow at grasping reality.

"Why, of course." Duncan smiles at him, somewhat sadly. "No matter the rules, you are still Cousland, and with your brother absent, who else should be there but yourself?"

With a mild shove from Duncan, Ned turns and with uncertain steps heads towards the camp. In the growing dusk he notices figures closing in to the place of the Joining: _the other Wardens coming for Jory and Daveth._

_Maker help me, there is truly no turning back_ _now_.

* * *

Watching the bodies of Jory and Daveth carried away, Duncan exhaustedly sags on the ruined wall, next to the Joining chalice. Once more, he rubs his arms, but the cold does not recede.

_Am I really getting so old?_

_I should probably be grateful that at least young Cousland made it_, he thinks grimly. _Jory… should I have anticipated this?_

_And would I still have recruited him if I __had known the mischance was there?_

A useless question. Willing recruits are hard to find – willing capable recruits even harder. _What did I hope for, another Alistair?_

_Young Theirin, young Cousland – I wish I could say that I relied on more than just instinct. Today that instinct failed miserably._

Duncan sighs and straightens.

_What is done, is done; for the bad or for the good._

_Let's hope for the latter – t__hough the instincts forebode the former._

_Either way, there is no way back._


End file.
